


The Tempest

by asmanysoulsastherebestars



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, I think??????, I wrote this for myself, Pre-Established Relationship, Reader has depression, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, i think??, it's not very good, loki is ooc af, tw depression, tw self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2020-01-16 00:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18510034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asmanysoulsastherebestars/pseuds/asmanysoulsastherebestars
Summary: This was my first time writing in a few years so the style is a bit Strange and Bad and has Too Many Commas. It's just a self-indulgent thing, set in the classic AU where everyone lives in the Avengers Compound and everything is Nice. Loki is very OOC, sorry. Purposefully ambiguous mentions of a pre-established relationship between reader and Loki.TWs: reader has depression, mentions of self-harm, a little of it at the beginning maybe??Loki visits the reader when they are having a particularly bad night.10/10/19- Upon review, I don't think that I should have written a work romanticising depression and self-harm, even if it sort of made me feel better at the time. It's a tricky area to navigate and I'm still thinking about how to better approach it, but will leave this work up for now for posterity and clarity regarding my recognising that I could have done better.





	The Tempest

Numbness. And yet, strangely… the opposite, and overwhelmingly so: emotions roaring in their agony, the bruising sharpness of fingernails clutching onto skin for what might really be dear life and leaving purple crescents in their place before dragging streaks of red down the rest of it in an angry path which had the singular goal of eliciting _a feeling_ , the deafening silence of a room in which only you stood, the endless cycle of _what’s the point what’s the point what’s the point_ married with the screaming of _wouldn’t anything be better than this, anything at all-_

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror as you stumble around your room, utterly lost in the torment of thought and emotion.  _Well, you look awful_ \- the words come to mind unbidden, with a brutal, biting tone that somehow manages to be bittersweet at the same time. The corner of your mouth twitches in a reflexive action that _could_ have been the beginnings of a smirk, but it’s gone so fast it’s as if no amount of feeling was ever there at all. Your eyes are slightly puffy and the tears are still running in tracks down your face, albeit halted somewhat as you stare at the reflection that can only be you, however detached it seems. Shaking hands reach out to find an anchor in the middle of this impetuous sea, breaking through the harsh storm to land at the edge of your dresser, gripping it strongly before you pull on the fabric of your sleeve to roughly drag it across your face and wipe the fluid there - _gross_ , says the voice, and that twitch returns, but again is gone all too soon.

You tear your eyes away from the haunted ones in the mirror and sit back on your nearby bed with a _whumpf_ that causes the mattress to bounce slightly from the entire weight of you- and all the emotions on your shoulders. You focus on breathing. 

_In…_

_Out…_  

Air. 

Oxygen.

Living. 

You are alive. 

And that’s…

okay……

…..? 

And just when you think you’ve righted yourself, one of the breaths catches with a horrible, choked noise in your throat as it all hits you and it’s too much again and-

“Hello, darling.”

There’s a pause. His smug smile falters- he expected immediate protest: usually it’s in a half-hearted glare as you look up and admonish him with something along the lines of ‘God, you have _got_ to stop doing that- what if I wasn’t dressed?’, or ‘For the love of _all_ of Midgard- Learn. To. Knock.’ and his silver tongue would give a sly response that would have you rolling your eyes with a suppressed grin. Hell, you weren’t even responding to the affectionate name with the routine dusting of pink across your cheeks and the words that are almost always some variation of ‘don’t call me that if we aren’t… um, together’ which he knows exactly how to tease you about after.

He frowns, looking at the hunched figure sat on the bed, the tremble in its arms and the sharpness with which it turns its head away at the mere sound of him.

“Y/N?” he ventures, taking a testing step towards you, only to see the muscles of your body stiffen slightly.

“I’m not… not in the mood for, um, whatever it is you want right now Loki I- please, just- just leave?” The questioning note the last syllable holds hangs in the air for a moment, manifesting in his thoughts in the form of conflict as to what he should do- honestly, for a second, he’s not sure as to the answer. But the hesitation ends and he cuts through the presence the word left with a few decisive steps forward. _Of course_ _he can’t leave._

Your breath comes ragged as you hear his footsteps approaching, your eyes tightly shut against the reality that you are going to have to explain this, and it’s to the last person you wanted to see you at your weakest.

You can hear the slight scrunch of his leather clothing as he moves, and although you can’t see it, concern is gracing his features. Then all too suddenly he’s there- and the mattress dips as he sits at your side, eyes searching you for any kind of response. When he sees none, he reaches for your arm and the contact of his skin against yours is so cold it causes you to jolt a little. He would have chuckled, but the noise dies on his lips at the slight turn of your head towards him that reveals the blotchy redness tears have left behind and the look of sheer anguish in your eyes.

Again Loki finds himself hesitating, but this time the thoughts are dismissed with a slight frown as he moves his other hand, reaching for you- reaching into whatever world you have disappeared into, for you suddenly seem so far away when just earlier he could have sworn you were there, laughing at something ridiculous that he had said, a gorgeous smile playing on your lips. He can’t even remember what it was that had caused such a reaction, but he knew that he wanted to see it again. So he reaches out-

His cool fingertips brush against your cheek, so feather-light in their touch it seems he’s afraid of causing damage. Then resolve seems to hit him and his hand cups your cheek firmly, yet it is with gentleness that he turns your head so that your eyes will meet his. With a quiet whisper of breath come the words, “What happened?” and your lips part slightly, giving him the hope of an answer that never comes as your eyes look into his, trying and failing to formulate an appropriate reply. You can only seem to think about how his touch is so unexpectedly tender, and in the same moment his thoughts are completely occupied with how your cheek is so soft, and how he wishes to bring back that smile of yours. A stray tear falls, and he immediately brushes it away with his thumb.

You look down, breaking from his piercing gaze ashamedly, and the concerned frown he wears furrows deeper, interpreting the action to mean you aren’t going to tell him what is wrong. And he’s partly right, because you just can’t figure out the way- How do you express such strong emotion in the mere form of words when you often find yourself tongue-tied around him? How do you do the distress and agony you’ve felt for so achingly long justice with speech? How can he understand it from what is bound to be your stuttering and stumbling articulation? 

But most of all… how do you admit to feeling such pain in the first place?

And he knew it was wrong the moment he thought of doing it- unfortunately his powers, so quick to respond to his whim, acted in that same second, and suddenly he was trying to see what your words, or lack of, couldn’t tell him. And with a frown, you swear you could feel it, something barely there- pressing at the edge of your mind, slowly infiltrating it. It was something foreign, something intent on selfishly finding answers, something unwanted. You almost give in to the delicate inquisition of the feeling, but come to reality with a start as you realise what, or rather, who it is.

“Stop it!” You stand with a shrill, abrupt shout, in your sudden anger barely registering the lingering ghost of his hand on your face and the other sliding from your arm as you pull away. You’re glaring at him, and he has the gall to look surprised that you could tell what he was doing. You take a few rushed steps away from him, moving past the bed and toward what would have been the door if Loki hadn’t appeared right in front of it.

His hands extend outward as you stop short at his sudden appearance, “Y/N, I apologise, I merely-”

“Don’t- just don’t, Loki.”

It’s with a muttered “please” which sounds almost desperate that he steps close, reaching for you. But you feel betrayed that he would try to read your mind like that, when you were at your most vulnerable- even if a small part of you argues that you can see why he tried to do so. Though it is simple to quell that small voice when you think of how it was an incredible invasion of privacy and trust, and with that thought comes the ease with which you can push both of his arms away. However, doing so causes the sleeve of your clothes to fall slightly, revealing those purple crescents which look suddenly so _harsh,_   perhaps because their background is thin lines of scars that you wish didn’t exist. You’re quick to go to pull down the sleeve over the offending marks, but Loki is quicker- he catches your wrist in a somewhat tight grip, mouth parting ever so slightly at the sight he reveals by pulling back the fabric further. His voice is minutely breathy with surprise, “Oh, darling, what have you done?”

And it is with that sentence that you crumble further. Maybe it’s thanks to the guilt it makes you feel, maybe it’s the term of endearment, maybe it’s that you’ve finally been caught- whichever reason, it gives you the strength to tug your arm away and clutch it towards your chest as you take several steps backward and the tears spring back to your eyes. As if they had ever gone far.

You stumble a little in your attempt to back away, and Loki disappears from in front of you, which leads to a split second of confusion before your back hits his chest and his strong arms wrap around you in a tight embrace, bringing his mouth to you ear.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, and in defiance of every intention you have to struggle and pull away, you feel compelled to focus on his voice, and the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the sense of safety his presence seems to give you, causing any upset to melt away and be replaced with a desire just to _be_ , here, in his arms.

He sighs a little and whispers, “I’m sorry”, so close his lips brush your ear oh-so-lightly and despite yourself, the contact causes the skin there to feel like it’s on fire. “I just wanted to understand, so I could help you.” There’s a slight tremor to the words as if he is uncertain of himself, and there’s another small sigh as he tightens his arms a little more, bringing you as close he can. “Just relax, Y/N. I’m here. It’s alright. I’m here… I’m here.” He repeats those sweet words for several minutes, as your breathing steadies and the tracks of the tears start to dry, his grip relaxing as your muscles become less tense and you lean back into him.

Your hand settles on his arms, and then you move forward, breaking from his embrace despite how every part of you is willing you to go back to it, back to the warmth, the comfort, the feeling of protection he provided. You turn to face him, and take a breath that thankfully only shakes a tiny amount as you meet his eyes. God, his eyes. So full of worry, and again searching yours desperately for the confirmation that you are okay. You manage a smile, and he returns it with such a genuine expression of relief that you feel your heart jump a little.

“Thank you.” You find yourself saying, and that smile of his twists a little, turning into the familiar grin you are used to.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He replies, and you frown at the unexpected response, causing that grin to grow yet wider. “Anything for you, darling.” He draws out the last word for a second, emphasising it, and in this moment it sounds far more intimate than it ever had before, finally meaning more than just a tease. You blush a little and roll your eyes with a tiny, exaggerated huff. And just as he had hoped, you’re suppressing a smile.

As quickly as it began the moment is over, with Loki stepping closer again and his expression becoming sombre once more. “Will you tell me about it?” He asks softly.

Your eyebrows knit together in a frown. Even in a calmer state, you’re not sure of how to say it, how much, or even if you should. “I…”

A flicker of stern disappointment flashes across his face, but it’s gone in a blink. You might’ve imagined it. “As you wish, love.”

Your heart flutters, and you hope he can’t tell. Though the slight, knowing raise of his eyebrows as he sees your breath catch tells you he probably can. _Damn it._

There’s a moment of silence as his steady gaze judges you carefully, and you’re painfully aware of every movement made and what you must look like right now and just as the silence stretches out long enough for you to start to feel a little foolish, his hand finds yours. Too many thoughts start firing off in your head: _What’s he doing? Does he want to hold it? Should I respond? Should I hold his back? What should I do? What **is** he doing? What-_

Oh.

He had gently pulled your hand until your arm was extended, and then carefully, _so carefully_ , brought down the sleeve. His cold fingers brush lightly over the raised lines there, dancing gently over the criss-cross evidence of your pain. The look on his face and his gentle touch seems to say a thousand words, but by God it’s nice to hear them out loud as he starts to speak.

“These scars of yours, Y/N…” You’re holding your breath without realising, desperately hanging on to every syllable, craving to hear the words of support you so dearly need. “You may not believe me- although that would be a fool’s errand, because, well, when am I wrong?” He lifts his eyes to smile at you, mirth alight in his expression, and your mouth twitches into a smile of your own, which stays this time. "But,“ he continues, "I believe that these are beautiful. They tell me how strong you are. How far you’ve come.” He’s speaking slowly, delicately, making sure you are hearing and, more importantly, taking in every word. “You are a kind, exceptional and beautiful human being that deserves to be here. With excellent choice in confidants, I might add.” A chuckle this time. “And you don’t have to tell me _anything_ , but I will be by your side regardless.” He breathes in steadily, and raises his hand to grace your cheek again so he can hold your gaze, intense, sincere eyes looking into yours. “Promise me, darling, that for now, that is enough, and that we can weather this storm together.”

………

“I promise.”

His lips quirk upwards once more. “Excellent.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :)


End file.
